Streaks on the glass.
I had a busy weekend with work and church and friends. I'm back on a Tuesday- Friday schedule at work for a while to accomodate all the weekend events that happen in the spring. I don't mind the change, but I think I prefer my Monday- Thursday weeks.
After a full launch into Oregon spring, the weather shifted back to gray and chilly. My body seems to prefer the tropical temperatures of Mexico, and I have contracted a head cold to prove it. I'm not miserable yet, but I feel that potential for miserable riding in my tonsils.
........
I haven't posted any poetry up here in a while. Here are two that I wrote last year.
Almost Memories
You come to mind
from the strangest cues:
the wind on the grass,
a car trip out of town,
someone’s dinner plate.
My mind settles in worn paths.
not from memory to memory,
but from hope to hope.
I’ve soaked in your smile
so many thousand times.
Recovering Spring
The first cloudless day
of the season is euphoric.
We pull up the legs
of our pants and let our skin
drink in the fragile rays
of that stranger, the sun.
People beam in the bank
and on the street.
Ah the weather, we say.
Rolling down the windows
in our automobiles,
we let the still-cool air
remind us of the way
the earth should smell.
The birds sing again,
and we smile at the sky.
After a full launch into Oregon spring, the weather shifted back to gray and chilly. My body seems to prefer the tropical temperatures of Mexico, and I have contracted a head cold to prove it. I'm not miserable yet, but I feel that potential for miserable riding in my tonsils.
........
I haven't posted any poetry up here in a while. Here are two that I wrote last year.
Almost Memories
You come to mind
from the strangest cues:
the wind on the grass,
a car trip out of town,
someone’s dinner plate.
My mind settles in worn paths.
not from memory to memory,
but from hope to hope.
I’ve soaked in your smile
so many thousand times.
Recovering Spring
The first cloudless day
of the season is euphoric.
We pull up the legs
of our pants and let our skin
drink in the fragile rays
of that stranger, the sun.
People beam in the bank
and on the street.
Ah the weather, we say.
Rolling down the windows
in our automobiles,
we let the still-cool air
remind us of the way
the earth should smell.
The birds sing again,
and we smile at the sky.
posted by Erin 10:10 PM
6 Comments:
nice poetry :)
http://wishu05.blogspot.com
I think I know why you have a head cold...
Praying that your cold stays away!
Have I told you lately that I wish haiku was a relatively unfamiliar form in the West, so that you could spend your days making perfect haiku?
I think haiku suits you.
The second poem is asking not to be touched, but I wanted to comment on the first...
It seems strange for the "you" of this poem to suddenly become personified in the last sentence...every time before this, "you" is something ethereal and intangible. "You", in fact, has not proven to be any more than a thought, and I like this mystery...particularly when it is intuitively tied to memory and hope.
Rick- Great feedback, thanks! I think the switch is probably lingering evidence of the stanzas that I originally wrote and then cut out. I always write much longer poems, and then I whittle them down. This one was even more specific before that process. I appreciate your comments, and it makes me want to keep revising that one...
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